


It is tough being a Mother

by CarminaVulcana



Series: The Life and Times of Amarendra Baahubali [1]
Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 09:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15603774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarminaVulcana/pseuds/CarminaVulcana
Summary: Amarendra Baahubali had seemed invincible to everyone right until the end when Katappa's tragic betrayal killed him. People believed him to be a God. But Sivagami has always known better.





	It is tough being a Mother

Sivagami Devi remained unfazed. The small unit of soldiers, the last remaining guard, and Suhabhatta, the foreign minister watched silently as she sat on the ordinary, wooden daybed with her son’s head in her lap. The storm raged on unabated outside. The tiny shack did little to protect them from the cold wind that accompanied the torrential rain. A thin blanket covered them both but it was far from warm.There was no mattress on the bed and the splinters from the rough, unpolished surface had to be uncomfortable. But she paid no mind to it. All her attention was focused on the prone form of her Baahu, the child she had come to love as her own over the last 20 years. 

She had not thought it possible. When the daasi had come and announced that the queen had died in childbirth, Sivagami had promised herself that she would try to be a mother to the poor, unfortunate baby. But she had never imagined it would be so easy. Love for Baahu came naturally to her. It was like he was a part of her own flesh and blood, a child of her heart. Sometimes, she wondered if she loved him more than even Bhalla, the child she had physically birthed. However, she refused to examine that thought in greater detail. A part of her knew the answer to that and she was frightened of acknowledging it. What an unnatural thing! How strange that she should love her adopted child more than her biological one? 

Sivagami was being hard on herself. Of course, she loved both her sons the same. Mothers with more than one biological child know that. But the Rajmata was forced to question herself at every moment because she had not started out like that. The Gods had blessed her with Baahubali through an act of utter cruelty to the boy. He had been born an orphan. Could that be why she was so protective of him? 

“What good was the protectiveness anyway?” she muttered under her breath. The skin on Baahu’s right shoulder was starting to darken to a deeper shade of green. The swelling had increased considerably in the last half hour. And the beige muslin bandage was soaked red once again. The coarse blanket under him was soaked as well. The bleeding had not stopped even after all this time. 

“M...m...mother…,” he whispered softly, his eyes still closed. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his temples and his hair was drenched with it. Lines of pain and tension creased on his forehead even as he slept uneasily, barely aware of where he was. 

“Vaidyajee is on his way, my son,” she said gently. And then she turned to look at Kanangupta, the commander of the swordmasters. 

“How long will it take?” she asked. Her voice was strong as ever but her lips shook as she spoke. Worry was evident on her face. 

“Mangalan has gone to get him,” Kanangupta answered. “We are deeply sorry that a routine excursion turned into such a misadventure. We should have known that this was an ambush.”

“Your apologies will not help now,” Sivagami said. “But whoever did this, I want him found and brought before the court. What do we know so far?”

“Not very much,” Kanangupta said and lowered his eyes. “But one of our soldiers has an important observation to share. He knows a little about the weapons that were used against us.” And with that, he  motioned to one of his subordinates to come forward. A tall, muscled man stood up. 

“Pranam, Rajmata,” he said, bowing before her with his right fist over his heart. 

“Begin,” she commanded.

“The weapons of the enemy were laced with a little-known poison called Raktabeejam,” he said. “I only know of it because I have seen it used once before as a young boy when I traveled with my father to Suvakadesh. That kingdom does not maintain diplomatic relations with anyone nor do they trade with anyone. Even independent craftsmen like my father had to seek a special permission to enter Suvakadesh. The country itself was splendid-- statues of gold everywhere, canopies woven with the finest silk from China, platters of gems and precious stones in the shops, trees laden with every fruit imaginable to mankind-- but the barbarity of its ruling class was unmatched. I saw two people punished in front of my own eyes for the minor infraction of stealing bread. They were arrested and tied up in the middle of the square. Six soldiers came upon them and slashed at their skin indiscriminately. The cuts were mostly superficial but they bled profusely and the mens’ skin turned black while they screamed in pain, crying, ‘help us, help us, it burns, it burns….’ But no one dared to help them. They were dead by the time my father and I returned to the square. We left Suvakadesh soon after and decided never to go back.”

Sivagami buried her head in her hands. What had happened today was humiliating. The band of soldiers they had been attacked by had not been very big but the first person they killed was Mahishmati’s chief physician. At first, that had seemed a totally absurd, not to mention, unethical thing to do. But now she understood why. 

Their poisoned weapons wreaked havoc on their victims’ bodies internally in addition to wounding them grievously on the outside. The agonizing screams of the two fallen guards still echoed in her ears. Mercifully, the blood loss killed them quickly. Not everyone would be so lucky.

Baahubali realized this minutes after the attack. And the foolish, honorable boy that he was, he ordered the soldiers to stand back and to take Sivagami and the foreign minister to a safe distance. 

“Baahu, you must retreat with us,” she had ordered him. It had felt strange commanding him to retreat when she had never given an order like that in her life. It made her feel cowardly but even she knew a lost fight when she saw one. Besides, she was the Rajmata, she had had to think from all sides and if victory was out of reach, there would be no unnecessary sacrifice of life. 

“They won’t let us retreat, mother,” Baahu had shouted back from the distance while dodging the barrage of arrows and taking out as many of the enemy soldiers as he could. “Once you are safe, I will make my way to you as well.”

Sivagami had had no choice but to see the terrible logic in his words. And so, they had watched helplessly as Baahu had fought back. For a time, it had seemed that even these soldiers from hell could not touch a hair on Baahu’s head. But alas, fate had had other ideas. 

In the end, he was attacked from four different directions. And while he managed to hold his own even then, he paid a heavy price for it. 

Sivagami had felt her heart stop when Baahu fell to the ground in a dead heap. 

A single tear rolled down her left cheek as she relived that terrible moment. 

A loud crash outside broke her out of her morbid reverie. 

“What was that?” she asked. 

“Lightning, Rajmata,” Kanangupta answered. Sivagami nodded but did not say anything. Instead, she turned back to Baahu and gently brushed his hair away from his face. She had not sung a lullaby to him since he was a very young child but she still remembered the words to his favorite one. With a sad, little smile on her face, she began to sing, hoping to comfort him through his pain. 

“ _Yashoda is going to the river, o Kanha,_

_ Won’t you help her carry her load… _

_ You’ve played all morning with the gopis, _

_ The peacocks must be tired now as well… _

_ Don’t you have just a moment for your poor mother, _

_ Your lucky, fortunate mother, blessed mother, _

_ One whose son is her moon and stars, _

_ Yashoda is going to the river, o Gopala, _

_Won’t you help her… help her… c..ca..carry he..her… load._ ”

Her voice was so choked with emotion that she couldn’t sing anymore. Some of the soldiers also had to hold back their tears. They wept partly because of the Rajmata’s soulful singing and partly because they were scared that their prince wouldn’t recover from this. To them, he was no less than a God, an apparition of Lord Shiva, a savior, a messiah… but he was still a man. And men bleed. Men die. 

The next hour passed in an uncomfortable silence. 

But just then, the welcome sound of hooves came from outside and the little cottage erupted in a flurry of activity once again. They had a fighting chance to save the prince. 

Amarendra Baahubali would live. 

 


End file.
